the Urban Archivist

Trabant Chai Lounge

Some time ago, I speculated about the affiliation of the Ave Hot Dog: whether it was an advertising agent of Matt’s or just an independent wiener.

Tonight, I walked into Matt’s because, while past the other day, I noticed that they were once again offering a Chicago-style for the very Chicago-like price of $1.99. When I walked in, the locally-famous, down-on-her-luck, trans woman who hangs out on the Ave was inside talking to the two, young, post-fraternity gentlemen working behind the counter. I started putting my stuff on the counter, thinking nothing of her being there except that I have seen her in a while — and that I’ve not been on the Ave much in the last 6 weeks. By the time I had taken off my jacket and approached to order, she had left.

It wasn’t until after I had paid for my order and sat down to wait that the light of Divine Providence shone down upon me and illuminated me with an answer to my question.

At the back of the restaurant, in the little nook that led to a supply room or some-such, on top of a waist-high stack of cardboard boxes lay the red and yellow pelt of the Ave Hot Dog! It was horizontal with its head pointing toward the dining area. There was a big red X atop its bald, meaty head where the fabric came together. Though lying neatly, it was a bit deflated since nobody was inside. It looked very similar to the discarded skin of some animal that molts and leaves behind the skin to look like a somewhat smaller copy of itself.

To tell the truth, it seemed a bit eery. I am so used to seeing the Ave Hot Dog extremely animated, even athletic what with how that woman was always running in place while wearing the pelt. So seeing it so lifeless did not invoke sadness, mind you, only caution and mild trepidation. It looked like it was sleeping — or maybe like it wanted me to think that it was sleeping. Whatever, the case, it certainly did not want to be disturbed and I was certainly not going to walk over and get a close-up peek. I half expected it to spring to life on its own.

Some time ago, Mr. Cthulhie relayed to me a story in which he overheard the woman speaking to somebody on the street and telling that person that she just lost her job. Was it the Hot Dog job that she lost? If so, what was she doing inside Matt’s today? More importantly, what is the story of the pelt? Is it possessed? Does it subsume its wearer and cause him/her to perform unseemly acts? Whatever the case, I know that I am going to be extra cautious as I peek into the shop on my walk home later.

It seems that a couple of U-District neighborhood residents have taken matters into their own hands. The following story comes courtesy of The Stranger (Vol. 15 No. 46: Jul 27 - Aug 2, 2006).

Striking Back
UW Neighbors Rain on LaRouchies

by Sarah Mirk

On Friday, July 21, two recent University of Washington grads struck a blow on behalf of Seattle residents: They staged a water-balloon attack on two crews of those ubiquitous, aggressive Lyndon LaRouche campaigners.

Ashley Miller, 22, lives in an apartment above Bulldog News on University Way. Every weekend, volunteers for the LaRouche campaign set up tables along University Way. The LaRouche campaign is known for tying traditional left-wing rhetoric to psychedelic conspiracy theories involving Nazis, Dick Cheney, supertrains, and Satan. On Friday, the LaRouche folks had a table on two corners of the intersection at Northeast 42nd Street and University Way Northeast. “You couldn’t even cross the street to get away from them,” Miller says.

That evening, she and her friend Kevin Mock, 29, filled six water balloons and lobbed “warning shots” out the apartment window. One balloon hit a volunteer in the chest. Another exploded on a stack of pamphlets. Soon, the police showed up and the self-styled hooligans hightailed it out the apartment’s back entrance. After the police left, Miller and Mock returned and hurled six more balloons down at the LaRouchies. The campaigners left soon after that and have not returned since, Miller says.

The attacks were motivated by previous encounters with LaRouche campaigners and a desire to “give back to the community,” according to Mock. “When I was a freshman, I made the mistake of giving them my phone number,” says Miller. “They called me every other day for six months.” Miller has already stockpiled a stash of biodegradable balloons to leave no trace of their next attack.

I like this. This seems a little like the British pie in the face method to express displeasure with a public figure. Now, one can argue whether or not this is technically non-violent but I believe the most important point here is that it is both non-lethal and non-scarring. Even though many LaRouchies deserve a good bop on the head every now and again, I wouldn’t want them to be targets of actual, physical violence.

I can’t argue against their right to set up sidewalk tables and preach their point. In fact, I rather like to see people, even and especially extremists, handing out literature on street corners. I only have two complaints against the LaRouchies: first, they lack creativity and flair of the local counter-Illuminati and, secondly, they are rude, aggressive, and abrasive. I hate bullies.

This is the same reason that I both love and hate campus preachers, for example. I enjoy seeing their signs and am frequently entertained hearing the tone of their hellfire and damnation. But lately, they have gotten more nasty. It seemed, back in my days at Urbana-Champaign, that some quad preachers knew not to take themselves too seriously. However, in the extremely politically divisive atmosphere of the last few years, all of today’s quad preachers have gotten more militant. Thus, I have often wanted to smack some of them.

So this, then, seems like a more palatable way to express disagreement with a little more… zeal. Whether I would actually do this or not I’m not certain. However, looking at this from the receiver’s end, I would much rather get soaked with water balloons than, say, eggs and bottles and rocks — which is what gay pride supporters in Warsaw, Poland faced last year. Heck, for any subsequent outing, I’d make sure that I was packing some water armaments too.